


Session 2 - One who is moves with the flow

by Munnin



Series: The Darthen Empire Campaign [1]
Category: Pathfinder (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Bluebooking, Gen, No contexted outside the campaign, PR inner thoughts, campaign diary, please ignore unless you're playing this game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-04 22:27:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17906825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Munnin/pseuds/Munnin
Summary: Cass' inner thoughts towards the end of session 2.





	Session 2 - One who is moves with the flow

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, don't bother reading this unless you're playing Pathfinder with me. This is just a spot for me to host some bluebooking / out of session prose. It's not meant for anyone not playing and isn't written to make a lick of sense. I'm just appeasing the muses. 
> 
> Please excuse the mangled google translate Japanese.

Cass picked her way to the water’s edge, feeling for flat stones amongst the slightly muddy silt of the shore. The waterhole had once been deeper and wider, the edges receded with a year of poor rain. 

She knelt on a stone, lifting a scoop of water to her nose. It smelt stagnant but not polluted. Clean enough to wash in but not drink or cleanse her wound. 

Her cloak had taken the worse of the hell-beast’s demise, the homespun cloth spattered with the gelatinous ichor the creature had become. There was little she could do to clean it without rinsing it and night’s air was growing cold. Better to keep it dry and hope the gore would dissipate as the beast had. She tore a strip off, dampening it to clean the cuffs of her vambraces, her toes of her boots and the knuckles of her gloves. 

It was only then, in the first moment of stillness she had taken since fleeing the tavern, she realised how badly she ached. 

Exhaustion weighted on her, seeping into her bones like the cold. Twice she had turned and dragged the unconscious ally into a horse and twice the beast had taken their mount from under them. The man had been so much larger than her, twice her weight at least but she’d somehow found the strength to move the encumberment of his prone form. Even as they fell and fell again. 

When the monk had called her to jump to his mount, she had been sorely tempted, even as she reached for the healing potion. To abandon her duty to another and protect herself. 

_I am one who is cut adrift. I am one who is slaved to the tide. I go where it takes me, for where it takes me will be my destination._

She accepted this path, and with it the duty to those with whom she travelled. It was why she had rallied to collect him in the first place, when she could have ridden on and let the monster give chase to those who fell behind. 

_I am one without star or guide. I accept the flow._

She shifted on her knees to cup more water, the twinge in her side bring her back to the present with the immediacy of pain.

The arrow had broken in one of her falls, an inch of it remaining beneath her armour. Little blood flowed but she knew that was because the wood of the shaft had stoppered it like a cork in a bottle. To take it out was to free a well-spring of blood but to leave it there was to risk it being driven in by another fall. Perhaps to find a deeper and more vital target. 

It would not be easy to remove alone but she was not ready to show the others weakness in this moment. Especially not- him. 

Biting back the thought and focusing on the present, she tore another strip of cloak, folding it to keep the clean inner surface up. She sat it ready on the stone, her knife beside it. 

Taking her vambrace between her teeth, the leather tasting faintly of oil, she lifted her armour aside and reached for the arrow.

_There will be pain and I accept it. I take this pain as the cost of my path. This pain is mine and I own it._

A small bubbling whimper passed her lips, too high and sharp for the leather to absorb. The head of the arrow bore no flange, slipping back through her flesh without catching. It was a small mercy, though she had been ready to cut a path for it if needed. Pressing down hard with the folded cloth, she felt the heat of her own blood on her fingers, strange and searing in the deepening cold. 

“We should carry on.” The monk called, he and the _bushi_ debating how far they should push on in the dark towards the meeting place agreed. 

Cass bound the wound as best she could, tying the still damp strip of cloth close around her ribs as she resettled her armour. Light-footed she re-joined the group, following the anxious brays of their surviving horses. 

For all her silence and the darkness, she felt his eyes on her. A man of her own lands, and so above her in station she felt the heat of shame to lift her eye to his. He tended the fallen one, doing what could be done as she searched the man’s things for the makings of light. 

But light could be an enemy as much as an ally, and they might yet be hunted. Better to move in darkness, trusting the horses and the gnome’s strange companion to find the way. 

As they walked, she settled herself beside the horse that bore the fallen one, a hand light on its neck for guidance in the gloom. The going was slow but the beast’s nearness drove out a little of the cold. 

She let her mind drift, falling into the rhythm of steady footfalls. 

_I accept the tide, for I am one who is rudderless and without bearings. I am one who is cut adrift in the storm._

She almost didn’t hear them call to a hold, coming to herself as the horse stopped at her side. 

There were things to done then. A fire to be built, bedding to be made from the brush and undergrowth. Steps to be taken to make ready, as best they could without knowing what it was they should be ready for. 

At least they could rest a little. And with that, the hope of lifting herself from the fog of weariness that seeped into her. 

Waking to the monk’s large but gentle hand on her shoulder, she took the watch. Back against a tree, she felt the sharpness of the night fill her with a renewed clarity. The stars like tiny shards of ice and the memory of another time, another place.

The sound of footsteps sent a surge of heat through her, all senses dancing to urgency and readiness. The monk woke grumbling and she was forced to hush him, pointing in the direction of the sound before she moved to wake the samurai. 

It was strange to see him without his armour, though his sword lay close at hand, as her own had done in her slumber. 

The light caught his eyes as she touched his wrist, darting back in case he woke to swing. The blue of them was… unnerving. Just as his height was. He had the complexion and bearing of _bushi_ she had seen in her homelands, but something about him was alien to her. Like unfamiliar words sung to a well-known song. 

He woke with stillness and an alertness that befitted one of his lineage, acting on her warning swiftly. 

The coming of the rat-man and his tiding did little to comfort her, nor ease the razor edge of her vigilance. Twice he bade her sit and still she found herself resting a hand on her blade. Only the gesture of good will in the return of her grapple and rope melted the stiffness in her spine, allowing her to enter the circle of light and accept the food the young girl readied. 

She listened as they gave their names and told their tales. There was as much reticence in their words as there were lies. This alliance of strangers still bound only by the most superficial of ties. 

The one who had fallen was awake now and gave him name as Mavaro. His answer was stiff and short, given away little. And with it, no recognition of what was done to save his life, several times over. She felt herself torn between resentment at that, and envy. For he would not carry the memories of that they faced. Of those fiery eyes. He had known only the dark of oblivion and the awakening to pain. 

The monk spoke truth, and that like a gushing fountain. For that, she admired him. Not only for his tale of kindness in the face of wanton cruelty, but also for his unguarded nature. He wore no armour between his skin and the world. And so too it was with his spirit – bared for all to see without fear or shame. 

But she could not be so open as he. And when her turn came, she found herself speaking more riddle than truth. 

At least, to most. To the others she bowed and give the name she had used in this land. Taken from one who had misheard and mangled it. A name common here, through it would never disguise that her looks and heritage had little reference in this place. 

But to the _bushi_ she could give no half-truth. To him, she gave a much longer name. A name that, though swiftly spoken, by its ordering told him much.

Her province of birth, her class and cast (both well below his own), the honoured mastery under whom she trained, her lineage and parentage. And last, as it was of least importance, her given name. 

Kazusa.

It was a name she had not spoken aloud in many years. A name that she had given up to the flow. A name she believed had washed away with tides and been lost.

And yet here, in a land far from all she had known, she had found it again. Before one to whom she could not lie. Under whose blue eyes she bowed deepest.

Rastas’ questions drew her back. He spoke of stories, of needed to give the downtrodden hope. Hope bound in their guises. 

She was no hero but she understood what he needed from them. Banners to rally to, fashioned from flesh. 

That they could be. However brief and fallible they may be in person, dressed in the garb of tales they would travel faster and burn brighter than their mortal selves. 

It was humbling and painful all at once. 

He was asking her to paint the colours of her banner, to weave the cloth on which her tale could be embroidered. 

“I am _Kirisute rareru hito_ ,” She bowed to the rat-man. “One who moves with the flow.”

He talked excitedly of her exploits, and the admiration by those of her sex who in this land were oppressed. Her banner would be theirs. A woman’s colours. Though her deeds had little to do with her sex, that was where her banner would be taken up. It felt disquieting that she might lead others to danger by it, but it was an act beyond her control now. Others were already painting her colours in the patterns of their will.

But she felt her eyes drawn to the samurai. 

He studied her, head cocked. One eyebrow raised. 

Only he of all of them could know she had lied. A lie of mistranslation but a lie all the same. 

Her words could be made to mean _one who is moves with the flow_ , if twisted to do so. But their truer meaning was _one who is cut adrift_. 

A deeper and more telling truth. 

For a moment she met his eye, then lowered her own. Those sky-hued eyes saw more of her than many had seen in years.

She forced herself to turn her gaze back to the speaker of those they had come to help. 

For their daring, one who had helped her would be punished. That she could not have. 

There was a rescue to plan, and in doing so – their banners to plant. 

If they failed, if they fell, their colours would give light to those who followed. 

This was her destination. 

At least for now.


End file.
